


Another Eponine's Song

by str4yk1tt3n



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/str4yk1tt3n/pseuds/str4yk1tt3n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Started as a drabble...now it's a long drabble. OC-centric, I'm warning you now. But there's some S/J love, I promise. You just have to look for it. But that's not what the story is about. I hope you like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Eponine's Song

_You know the drill - The Labyrinth and all it's constituent elements belong to Jareth the Goblin King and are on loan by him to the nice people at the Henson Company and whoever else. They do not belong to me._

"I wish the goblins would come and take me away, right now."

Fingers knotted into fists, muscles tensed as if anticipating a blow, she stood with her eyes squeezed resolutely shut.

It hadn't worked. It couldn't have. Once she opened her eyes, she knew she'd be confronted by the same strangling reality that nipped at her skin until it was raw and crawled through her veins, making every movement ache and burn, that smothered her when she woke up in the middle of the night with her heart pounding and fingertips sweating, pressed down on her chest until she could barely pull air into her lungs, driving her to restless tossing until she finally got up and paced out to the sofa where she would curl up and watch fantasy movies for hours until exhaustion finally won out and she fell back into the worlds her dreams built for her.

It hadn't worked. She knew on a purely logical level that regardless of how much she meant it, how much longing, yearning or desperation she put into her request, goblins couldn't steal you away if goblins didn't exist. Those people who claimed to have had encounters with beings from elsewhere were obviously drunk, or high, or suffering from some undiagnosed mental illness. If she did open her eyes and see imps and fairies, all it would mean was that she had finally pushed her fanciful mind past the breaking point and it had decided to give her what she wanted, and that she would spend the rest of her life dreaming of magic in a padded room. A shudder rippled down her spine at the thought. The only thing worse than being trapped in the mundane world would be to be trapped in the mundane world and not know it, to be pitied and feared and drool on herself, locked inside her own head. Even worse…to maybe wake up someday, years down the line, wasted and mad, life gone, all alone.

It hadn't worked.

Expected defeat untangled some of the tension from her shoulders and the breath she'd been holding leaked out in a quiet, desperate sigh as she reluctantly squinted one eye open a crack.

She would have expected, so sure was she that her plea had not been answered, to have seen at least a glimpse of the dusty shelves and dirty dishes she had resigned herself to, before the burden of proof was visited on her occipital cortex. Instead, she found herself utterly confused, trying to process what the lumpy green-and-brown thing in front of her was.

Curious, she straightened from her defeated defensive half-crouch, opened both her eyes fully and tilted her head.

A tree.

She took a small step backwards and turned hesitantly to survey her surroundings.

More trees. Also bushes, rocks, leaf-litter, moss and the occasional rustlings and shuffling of things living in those trees and bushes, and under the rocks and leaf-litter.

She took a deep breath of cool, crisp air that carried the scents of bark and dirt and decaying plants and smoke.

Autumn.

Not the mud and flowers and fresh grass of late spring that had been drifting through her kitchen window.

Something darted thorough the periphery of her sight and she spun to look. It disappeared into the undergrowth but not so quickly that she didn't get a solid look at the powerful, stubby legs, scaly skin and bulging eyes. Oh yes, and homespun patchwork pants and jerkin.

She continued to stare at the tangled briers for a few long, dazed moments.

It had worked.

She did (of course) consider the possibility of madness as she wandered through crisp leaves, examining the new terrain. After worrying about the possibility of loosing her mind through sheer force of will, failure to contemplate the idea that she had done exactly that could be considered proof of insanity in and of itself. Also, the fact that she seemed to be in a land that flew in the face of everything she had been brought up to believe was 'real' certainly suggested the chance of an altered mental state.

There didn't seem to be any way to prove incontrovertibly that she wasn't crazy, but she certainly didn't  _feel_ like she was. All of her senses agreed on her surroundings. Not only that, but the fact that she had opened her eyes on trees rather than television and textbooks seemed to support the 'really in another world' theory – if she had experienced a mental break, she thought it more likely that her first glance would have yielded a sofa, a carpet and a coffee table and then quickly substituted in other scenery.

The scenery itself was another factor in sanity's favor – the middle of the woods was not where she would have imagined herself materializing. She might have pondered that she would be stolen away to The Castle, or visualized herself dropped unceremoniously somewhere in the middle of the Goblin King's Labyrinth. An arrival on the wind-swept hill overlooking the front gates of the maze would have been pretty much expected. Instead she was in a gloomy forest that looked familiar only in the way that a deciduous forest in autumn looks a lot like a deciduous forest in autumn – and even then the two were only similar in the most prosaic sense of "there are trees, many with changing and/or falling leaves"…and she kept glimpsing parts of the world around her that simply did not mesh with what her experiences told her to expect.

Also...it was cold.

The tank top and cargo pants that had been perfectly suited to the temperatures of a sunny spring afternoon were not quite as appropriate on an evening that felt a lot more like late October than early June.

It made sense to her that, if her mind did decide to give into her whims, it would do so in a way that took her expectations, apparel and relative temperature into account.

After looking at the problem from as many sides as she could, she came to the conclusion that either:

she really and truly had been carried away by the goblins as per her fervent request, or

she was utterly mad, but so thoroughly so that unreality and reality were indistinguishable from each other, and her mind knew her well enough to trick her so entirely that she might as well just go with it and accept that she really and truly had been carried away by the goblins as per her fervent request.

That resolved, she threw herself into her new environment with relief and glee, determined to see at least seven magical things before bedtime and also, hopefully, to find a solution to the problem of summer clothes in an autumn world.

Her first few days in the Underground were everything she could have hoped for and, as the cliché goes, more. Only inside her imagination or wandering her dreams had she experienced wonder at the levels in which it now surrounded her, and the complications and discomforts she encountered, rather than dampening her exhilaration, simply enforced the fact that everything she was seeing and doing was really real. She thrilled over every bug bite and stubbed toe, and smiled as she shivered in the chill air.

The first night in the woods had been less than comfortable, but she had eventually found a forgotten lighter in a side pocket of her pants and succeeded in constructing a shabby fire. She had gone to sleep hungry in body, but sated and lethargic in soul…and she had successfully spotted no less than a dozen magical things before she closed her eyes that night.

The following morning she woke stiff and shivering next to a small pile of grudgingly smoldering embers with her short pink hair full of leaves and worse and her sluggish brain craving coffee in a rather demanding fashion, but as she got her feeble fire sputtering again, recollection of the previous night flooded her grumpy brain with almost enough endorphins to combat caffeine withdrawal. After absorbing as much warmth as she figured she was going to, she brushed herself as clean as she was able and set off in the general direction she had been wandering the previous evening. Though she continued to experience minor, expected discomforts, walking kept her blood moving enough for her to be not too very cold, and she stumbled across a small, clear stream after about an hour. The water numbed her hands instantly but was deliciously refreshing, and thankfully filling in her empty stomach. The problem of food was soon solved as well, as around midday she found an entirely normal-looking apple tree in a grassy clearing and after scrambling up a few low branches to commandeer a shirt-full of the fruit, she reclined against the tree's trunk to savor her prize and rest her feet while watching playful breezes ripple the autumn-golden meadow around her.

Late that afternoon she encountered her first intelligent Underground life—or at least the first intelligent Underground life that had decided to let itself be known to her. She had just begun keeping half an eye out for a spot to curl up for the night when she was discovered by a small tribe of Fireys, who cheerfully abducted her to join in their nighttime revels. That evening was far more comfortable than the previous one. Though her hosts were on the exuberant side, she couldn't find any true bad-naturedness in them, and around a roaring bonfire they regaled her with unlikely legends that had her doubled up in laughter and music that spanned a spectrum that covered everything from sea shanties and ballads to American classic rock. They were enamored with her vividly colored hair and teased her about her ancestry, deciding over a veritable feast of hearty bread, fresh fish and farm cheese (as well as her remaining apples), that she was surely a long lost cousin…though she had obviously missed out on the good looks that ran strongly in their side of the family. That night she slept warm, fed, content and surrounded by a dubious adopted kin. Quite possibly, she had never been happier in her life.

The next few weeks passed in a pleasant haze. She explored on her own or with company, the Fireys having taken her under their wings as far as their brief attention spans would permit, and various other inhabitants of the world having taken a brief interest in or permanent shine to her, and she soon could confidently navigate a respectable portion of the forest and much of the surrounding area. There was no navigating the Labyrinth, of course – it changed at its own whim or at that of He who made it, and could only be felt, not learned…but she discovered that if one wasn't trying to conquer It, It had no reason to maliciously misdirect. Also, her own lack of a definite destination rendered the maze's propensity to keep people from getting where they were going rather obsolete, and she contentedly spent long periods of time wandering between stone walls and tall hedges.

The days continued to get colder and shorter, but the Goblin City offered a selection of wares for sale or trade. Lacking any tangible form of payment, the cost of warmer clothes came dear—a treasured childhood memory and two wishes from deep in her heart—but when the wind rattled dry leaves across the cobblestones and knocked the last of the apples out of the tree to putrefy in the dry grass of the meadow, she was glad for the protection of wool and fur.

More than a month had been spent in the Underground when she saw Him for the first time.

He that elicited bowing and scraping and cringing.

He of the ice-flow voice and roguish smile, of the wild hair and hypnotic eyes.

He, the master and commander of all he surveyed.

He, the sovereign of the dark fae and beating heart of the Labyrinth.

Her richest imaginings were pale, watery insults compared to the Goblin King's reality, and even after having seen him, memory could never truly do him justice. Some things are simply too much to be confined within the walls of a mind – certain colors that nearly slither off the edge of the visible spectrum, particular chords struck perfectly by gifted hands in such a way that the notes take up voices of their own and redouble their resonances against each other, the taste of rain – the mind could build simulacrums, but when experiencing them after an absence the rememberer is always likely to be surprised at hidden notes and textures that could never be recorded faithfully. The Goblin King made the most delicate song the wind ever played through soft spring leaves seem no more complex than a child's nursery rhyme, dazzling each of the senses in turn, leaving them too dazed to comprehend what they had just experienced.

The first time she saw him, all she caught was a glimpse, not even for enough moments together to gather into a small handful, as he stepped through a splash of cold sunlight at the far end of the shadowed street on which she was standing. If she hadn't glanced up at the exact moment that she had, she would have missed his passage – but  _of course_  she had looked up. He had a presence that did not so much  _request_  attention as demanded it in a loud and arresting voice…that  _no one_  dared ignore, she noticed, as the two largish trolls she had been haggling with paused in their glowering and looming to watch until he had stepped around the corner. Even though she saw him at a distance and for barely more than a second, when he was there everything else seemed to dim a few degrees and contain just a sparkle less life, turning the world around him into little more than a painted backdrop for the elaborate drama of his existence.

She diligently concentrating on absorbing every facet of his passing, knowing that one tiny glimpse would become the new best-and-brightest memory in her mental treasure-chest...though the next time she encountered him, he put the much examined and polished reminiscence to shame before she had even the time to take a full breath.

Winter in the Underground was not gentle. Winter in the Underground was as cold and bitter as the heart of its ruler.

The Fireys told her a tale of a winter long past that had been mild, almost teasing, but the following year had brought the worst cold that most living in the kingdom had ever seen – even among the hardy underworld fae, not all had survived the harsh season.

She knew why the weather changed.

They knew as well, likely as not, but the subject was dropped quickly and was left where it lay. It wasn't something that was talked about.

The first morning that she woke up to find frost feathering the far edge of her blanket she knew that some more substantial accommodations had passed out of the realm of luxury and into that of necessity .  _She_  probably wouldn't have been able to survive even the year winter came lightly **,**  sleeping outside, soft mortal that she was, and once the season changed in earnest, the warmest fire wouldn't keep her from freezing solid in her sleep.

A few long days were spent searching for a way to secure room and board and she would have been amused by the fact that job hunting in the Underground was at least as frustrating as it is anywhere else if she hadn't been increasingly annoyed and desperate. Getting information from goblins proved not to be a bit like picking up a page of classified ads or browsing Craigslist. Goblins take their time. Goblins joke. Goblins misdirect. Goblins doublespeak and spin riddles out of street directions. She finally settled on doing things the old-fashioned way and pounded the pavement in the Goblin City from one likely-looking establishment to the next, offering her services.

Thoughts of the haughtily beautiful face she had seen so briefly directed her steps toward the castle—which proved to be the only place perfectly happy to give a clear, concise answer that required no deciphering.

"Sorry. No humans."

Her species wasn't the only issue—if there had been a shortage of staff, or even a shortage of  _competent_  staff, she might have at least have been able to plead her case, but as matters stood, the Castle Beyond the Goblin City was very well taken care of. Not only that, but apparently a position in the Castle was a sought-after mark of prestige, not an entry-level after-school job that could be picked up just walking in off the street – even the scullery maids could lord over almost any of the non-castle employed residents of the City or surrounding land. And supposedly, she learned with surprise, the staff were quite well-treated by their lord and master.

Oh, and, "Absolutely no humans."

On the evening of the fourth day, shortly before sunset, she finally found success in a small tavern that needed to replace a serving girl before the busy winter months filled the smoky room with loud and thirsty customers. A small room under the rafters and two meals per day were agreed upon as wages. Told to return the following afternoon to begin work, she wrapped her cloak tightly around her and stepped onto the darkening street. The first flurry of the year stung her cheeks as she straggled back towards the edge of the City to try and find herself a sheltered grove or an overhang in which to light the warmest fire she could and try to get some sleep.

Walking through the intersection of a cross-road that offered an unobstructed view, she paused and looked up at the castle. There was a glow of light from a high tower window and a flicker of movement, but even if the wind hadn't been tossing her tangled hair in her eyes, she still couldn't have made out any detail atthat distance.

Work in the tavern proved to be everything that one might expect of work in a small crowded tavern in the middle of a goblin city in winter: exhausting, demeaning, and occasionally incredibly disgusting. Nonetheless—even though muscles she hadn't known she  _had_  ached by the time she dragged herself up to her tiny room at the end of the night and she was often as not adorned by quantities of energetically spilled drinks—as winter wrapped the land in an icy fist having a warm, safe place to sleep was a definite comfort.

A fact of which she occasionally strove to remind herself.

Like, when she got bitten on the forearm breaking up a scuffle between a dwarf and a small hob on one particularly boisterous night.

Like, when she went to sleep smelling like sweat and ale. Again.

Like, when a chicken usurped her room for a week, and she was forced to sleep on a bench in the tavern proper, surrounded by drunkenly snoring goblins.

Like, when her second encounter with the Goblin King came near the middle of a slowish night and near the end of an exhausting week and she was tired and dirty **,**  in a dress that had collected a variety of stubborn stains, and he was pristine and elegant, lounging against the bar and chatting with the Millie, the proprietress, as he sipped a goblet of warm mead and looked as comfortable as if he frequented small smoky pubs every evening.

Had she been carrying anything, she would have certainly dropped it with an attention-drawing clatter, so she had been thankful her hands were empty and that she had been able to simply reverse her steps and disappear into the back without being seen. She spent the next hour or so doing inventory in the stockroom and fluctuated between being grateful that He hadn't looked up and noticed her in the brief moment she had hesitated in the doorway, and being utterly despondent about the same, and also contemplating the curiosity of the king of the realm as utterly at ease in a small, smoky tavern as if he frequented it nightly.

She had just finished tallying barley supplies and was moving on to bags of hops when the Millie hunted her down, smacked her with a spoon and proceeded to call her lazy and insult her heritage for a good ten minutes, but she had become accustomed to that kind of treatment by then so she simply nodded and apologized and returned to the public room and served ale and mead and the occasional trencher of stew with hearty bread, until both her feet and her brain were numb, but it was finally closing time and after another hour or two of cleaning up the evening's detritus she stumbled up the stairs to her attic room and slept and dreamt of the Goblin King's blue eyes smiling at her.

And so it went.

She worked every night until shortly before dawn, then slept in an exhausted heap until a bit after mid-day, when she woke and had a few hours to herself before the evening crowd began to stream in and demand food and drinks and more drinks and eventually just drinks.

She wondered if the Goblin King was a frequent customer, but eventually learned that though his visiting common taverns now and again was just a reflection of his mercurial nature and as such was never exactly surprising, it happened rarely enough, just the same. In part, she was disappointed, having contemplated that his regal profile might become part of the scenery of her life… and there were, of course, vague fantasies in which he noticed her one night and smiled at her and would stop in each evening and wait for her alone to bring him his drink and then would encourage her over her protestations to join him and would tell her about the frustrations of running a kingdom, because he had no one to open up to and she was so very understanding and they became fast friends and eventually far more than friends...but when she was honest with herself she was rather relieved that he would be seen in the tavern rarely if ever—she doubted that his presence was one that she would ever become anesthetized against, and suspected that even if he were there every night she would likely always mumble and keep her head down to avoid his sharp gaze, and become so awkward and clumsy when he was present that he would believe her a tragic half-wit wished away by frustrated parents.

True to her intelligence, he did not return to the tavern for the rest of the winter. She saw him twice in the market, however. The first time was again at a distance—just a glance of light on silver-blonde hair ahead of her as she turned a corner and a moment later, he turned another one out of sight. The second occurred when she paused in the mouth of an alley to adjust the tie of her sleeve and glanced up to see him stop and speak seriously to the owner of the shop to her left, standing a scant few feet from her. She had frozen, watching him talk, cataloguing his nuances and his gestures until he moved on a few minutes later and she leaned against the wall with her eyes closed and let the memory of his expressions and wind-blown hair play across her mind until the cold forced her to move on as well.

Other than her few brief encounters (that she couldn't even really call encounters if she was being honest, as she had been overwhelmingly aware of his presence but he had been oblivious to hers) her life continued in an unspectacular fashion, interspersed with various regional annoyances:

Her hair had finally grown long enough to tie back from her face, the natural color contrasting strangely with the fading pink tips, and seemed to be more prone to tangling than ever before. She had attributed this fact to a lack of silkifying hair products at first, but when she still woke up to knots and snarls after meticulously combing and braiding her now two-toned tresses before she went to sleep each morning she began to suspect the tangles had outside help. She was proven right when she discovered that an imp had decided her warm room was a good place to spend the winter and that the long morning hours were best wiled away by twisting elf-knots into her hair. She contemplated cutting it all off again, but she had generally found that shorter hair was exponentially more troublesome than longer, and too, she greatly appreciated the extra warmth that her hair gave her, so she eventually resigned herself to a tedious untangling every afternoon.

She had scrimped and wheedled and bartered and worked extra hours until she was able to obtain a dusty book of blank paper and a couple of pens from the market, wanting something to while away hours and missing her old sketch journals. She shouldn't have been surprised, considering the natural inclinations of the local population, to open her book one afternoon and discover the pages of her hard-won indulgence defaced—moustaches and antlers decorating her portraits and rude words scrawled in the margins. She had cried bitterly for a short while, but with nothing to be done about it, she eventually simply turned to a blank page and began again. She found hiding places for her book after that, which wasn't absolutely fail-safe, but worked most of the time.

Cleaning – of self, clothing, crockery or anything else – was not the easy convenience that it had been in the aboveground world. She recalled complaining bitterly at having to drive twenty minutes to wash laundry, but now she would have jumped for joy at the sight of a Laundromat. The thought of a hot shower could turn her knees weak – honestly the thought of hot running water at all made her sigh wistfully, which she often did as she waited for a heavy pot of water to heat over the kitchen fire, or as she lugged the hot water to the washing trough to mix with harsh soap for washing clothing or dishes or bodies, or sometimes all three consecutively. She had camped and roughed it more than a few times when she was younger, and would have thought herself able to deal with a bit of regular dirt, but she quickly discovered the vast chasm of difference between getting a little dirty on an adventure and being able to return home at the end of the weekend to wash thoroughly and living in rustic conditions day in, day out.

Not that it was all bad...there were annoyances to be sure, but joys and contentments as well. The Underground never stopped amazing her even when aspects drove her to distraction – and sometimes the very things that angered and annoyed her would enchant her at the same time, or would make her want to tear her hair out one day and leave her laughing the next. She wasn't a lonely Dickensonian orphan locked in an attic being fed gruel and laboring in the workhouse by day. Well, she did typically sleep in an attic, but she wasn't abused and shunned…much, and not really lonely at all – though some residents of the land were taciturn and malicious, others were capable of being quite charming. She had favorite customers, favorite vendors in the market and even a few individuals she considered friends.

There were certainly things about Aboveground that she missed…like coffee shops and bookshops and TV and the internet and soft beds with soft sheets and modern conveniences and school and her future…but there were plenty of things in this world that were sorely lacking in the world she came from.

For example, magic.

For example, fairies.

For example, surprisingly entertaining chicken-tossing tournaments.

For example, a devious and dashing Goblin King.

She found herself growing more fascinated by Him each day – taking a little longer to clear a table if a group nearby began discussing him, trying to seem casual in her interest if he came up in conversation, idly sketching his sharp cheekbones and mismatched eyes as she sat curled up on her pallet in the hours before the tavern opened, finding herself needing items from the market on days when she had overheard he might be attending to business in the City.

On the occasion that she  _did_  find herself in the same place at the same time as him, without fail she either froze like a startled rabbit hoping to avoid notice, or watched him surreptitiously from a shadowed corner or hidden alcove where she couldn't bee seen. He never seemed to notice her presence either way, even the time he came close enough to where she stood pretending to peruse carved wooden utensils that she could have reached out and brushed her fingertips against his hair. Though she couldn't imagine that he did not feel her intent gaze, he never paused or turned his cold eyes towards her hiding spots, and she could only imagine that her attention was a negligible addition to the regard he received wherever he went.

As winter slowly and reluctantly gave way to spring, he came into the tavern on a few occasions – once to speak to the Millie again, and at other times apparently just to sit by himself with a glass of mead. She had served him once, cringing internally at her too bright smile as she handed him his drink, but he had just nodded and thanked her absently before turning away and seeming to forget her presence.

He seemed pensive a lot of the time. He would sit, lost in his own thoughts with a small crease between his brows, idly twirling the liquid in his goblet. She wondered if that Girl knew what she had done to him by leaving and if his heart could ever be healed by anyone.

Time went by.

Her hair grew. She snipped the faded ends off. She still woke to improbably tangles each day.

She learned the intricacies of carrying a fully laden drink tray through a room full of tussling patrons, and of deciphering and remembering 20 orders simultaneously.

She taught herself to sew out of necessity – first simply mending tears and worn seams, then making new items to replace those that had passed a point beyond repair. Her first efforts were dreadful if serviceable, but as the ground thawed and, consequently, work in the tavern grew less hectic, she had time to practice.

She developed lean muscles in her arms from carrying and cleaning.

She wondered what people back home thought had happened to her.

She was tasked with arranging the weekly deliveries to the castle as warmer weather gave way to slower business, and thus returned to the castle for the first time since she had been turned away. She hoped to see Him, but though she dawdled and lingered as far as she dared, he did not appear.

She filled her first book (with minimal contributions by others) and traded an armload of mending for a second.

She adored the Goblin King from a distance and wished she could be the one to salve his scars.

Time went by.

Spring proper rampaged across the Underground in a riot of exotic beauty, greenery erupting from the earth and magic almost tangibly present in the air and beneath the paving-stones.

Days lengthened and brightened and faded into a slow, hazy summer. Customers returned to the tavern (though in smaller numbers than winter brought), hiding from the heat inside cool stone walls with cool, bitter drinks. The room under the rafters became stifling at nearly all hours, and especially those in which she was intended to sleep, so she went elsewhere—sleeping in the main room of the tavern or seeking out shady benches in obscure corners of the City to doze on, or even venturing past the edge of the city, back into the woods or Labyrinth to nap through the heat of the day.

She unearthed the clothing she had arrived in, but the modern cuts and materials felt strange on her body after so many months of heavy skirts and home-spun cloth.

For a few days at the apex of summer, the entire land seemed locked in stasis under a smothering blanket of heat—but then, as quickly as the heat had gripped the land, it dissipated and the days grew milder and the nights crisper. She began to sleep in the tavern again.

One morning she stepped outside to run some errands before bed and the chill air raised goose bumps on her bare arms. She ran back up to her room and grabbed her cloak from the corner where it had laid in a neatly folded pile all summer and tossed it around her shoulders as she hurried back out the door.

She had been there a year.

Autumn was a season of harvest and festival. The King had presided over the week-long feast and was more good-humored than she had seen him before, almost animated, as he lounged on a stone dais and magnanimously accepted tributes from his subjects.

Any time she had not spent working, or catching a few grudging hours of sleep, had been spent wandering the festival, sampling dubious delicacies and watching displays of skill and wonder. She tarried longest at booths near the central dais, examining goods she did not want, did not need or could not afford while stealing glimpses of Him as often as she dared.

On the last day of the festival, He passed so near her in the market that the edge of his cloak brushed her arm. She raised her eyes and turned towards him, but he was already past and did not look back.

The end of the festival offered the expected slew of collateral damage, which gave the thachers and masons the guarantee of plentiful employment in months to come, and for days after the merriment was over, various members of the populace remained insensible in the gutters as a result of strong harvest ale enjoyed in too much luxury.

Life returned to normal.

Time went by.

Grain was lashed and stored for the months ahead.

New cracks were discovered in walls as the weather grew chill, and summarily patched.

Customers came to the tavern and drank, and she served them.

She was still sent to the castle each week, and still never saw Him, though she would linger until she saw the serving women glancing at her out of the corners of their eyes while they talked to each other behind their hands. She would return to the tavern deeply ashamed of her blatant behavior, then do exactly the same the week following.

The days grew colder and leaves rustled across the cobbles and drifted deep in passageways.

The tavern regained the patrons lost to seasonal toil.

She suffered a deep laceration on her shoulder during a scuffle between two goblins over a game of dice. It took a long time to heal, but it did heal eventually.

She began occasionally to sleep in the main room rather than her attic—not because of poultry property disputes or seasonal discomfort, but simply because just the thought of climbing the stairs at the end of the evening was sometimes exhausting enough to bring her near to tears.

Frost began to form each morning on anything that did not move, and tried to form on anything that moved slowly.

Autumn became winter in full.

Snow and ice coated the Labyrinth and the stone streets of the Goblin City were treacherous and slippery.

The cold slid reluctantly away and hints of green appeared.

Winter became spring.

The world was first sodden and then green and fertile.

Spring became summer.

A second book was filled and a third purchased.

Time went by.

She tried to learn to ignore the knowing looks from the serving staff and castle guards as she spent long minutes adjusting the hem of her skirt in the castle courtyard, but she would return to the tavern with cheeks still pink with shame for her obsession.

She tried to learn to ignore the knowing looks from the market vendors when she paused by the side of a booth that would offer a concealed view of His passage, but she would fade back into a dark alley after he was out of site and berate herself for her ridiculous infatuation.

She tried to learn to ignore the knowing looks from Millie when she handed Him a goblet of mead or ale with pink cheeks and averted eyes, but she would flee to the kitchen as soon as she was able and wallow in equal parts frustration and mortification while furiously scrubbing the heavy brass pots from that day's cooking.

She tried to learn to ignore him, but she could as soon ignore the ground beneath her feet or the air she breathed.

The stifling summer receded back into autumn.

The harvest approached as did the festival in its honor and as the population unearthed their finery, she was thankful for the tedious time she had spent over the previous year sewing a flattering gown of dearly acquired broadcloth and cotton in shades of soft green.

She spent her time at the festival much as she had spent the previous year's – wandering and shopping, admiring and watching, dallying near the central dais and observing the Goblin King as discreetly as she could.

He seemed less jubilant this year than he had the last, his face a distant mask of hauteur and boredom, his manner impatient, his focus fluctuating.

On the final night of the festival He found her serving in the tavern. His movements lacked their usual grace and his breath carried the sweetness of mead and fairy wine, and when he brushed his gloved hand through her dark hair and met her green eyes, his own were unguarded and bleak, and he didn't care that hers were the wrong green eyes and dark hair.

When he took her to his bed, it was beyond what she could have imagined, as he brought her again and again to the vibrating edge of pleasure, until her muscles were trembling and her body ached, but still he pulled her onwards into mindless ecstasy.

And if his eyes were tightly closed when she looked into his face, she pretended not to notice.

And if he called out the name of another when he found his own release, she pretended not to hear.

As dawn began to thread the sky, he fell into exhausted sleep and she regarded him from a few inches away, longing to run her fingers over his pale skin and weave them through tangled strands of his silky hair, but even in sleep he lost none of his nobility and arrogance, and to touch him felt as though it would be both discourteous and unwelcome.

She was still watching the gentle rise and fall of his lean chest when a small group of serving women entered the opulent room and quietly bustled her back into her dress and out of the castle, stilling her protestations with firm looks and firmer handling.

For the first few days after the harvest, she looked up every time a shadow crossed the door of the tavern-her heart leaping at the thought that He had come for her, realizing that he had been foolish to ignore the girl in front of him who was so full of love, her stomach plummeting at the thought that his goblins had come for her, to throw her in his darkest oubliette so he could forget about the girl he had pretended was the girl that he loved.

A week passed, and neither happened.

Then a month.

On a slate-grey afternoon on the border between autumn and winter, he walked past her in the market. Though she tried to stand defiantly, when he was a few feet away she dropped her eyes and edged back from the road. She didn't wonder at the fact that he missed her presence.

On the night of the first snow, he drank in the tavern. He accepted his drink from her trembling hands with his usual distracted nod then turned his gaze back to the flakes spiraling outside the window. Unsure as to whether he had noticed her or not, she remained indecisively a few feet from his table until Millie caught her arm in a bruising grip, dragged her back into the kitchen and pushed her towards the sink of unwashed dishes with a roll of her eyes.

After a few more months passed, she finally understood how much she had meant to him.

If he had thrown her in an oubliette, at least that would have been something. A sign that, if nothing else, she bore enough resemblance to cause him pain. That he didn't want to see her face and be reminded.

He passed her in the street, now and then. He occasionally spent a few hours in the tavern. She lost some of her timidity and was even able to look him in the eyes once or twice as he strode through the stalls of the market, but his glacial gaze neither warmed nor cooled, merely met hers with polite indifference.

Sometimes when she saw him he appeared pensive, other times, serious, and on rare occasions he smiled, though never at her.

Winter, as always, filled the tavern to capacity and she went to bed exhausted, but still managed to dream of Him.

The weekly orders for the castle remained her responsibility, and she continued to linger in the halls and courtyard, but all she ever saw was the sneers of the castle attendants and the frost of her own breath.

Spring came, rainy and violent.

Summer came and she no longer found excuses to loiter in the unshaded courtyard when making her deliveries.

Autumn came and she spent a morning sitting under the apple tree. She watched the brown grass shiver in the breeze and wondered again what conclusions had been reached regarding her disappearance. When the annual festival arrived, she worked in the tavern, and slept in her attic room, and returned below-stairs to work more.

Winter came. It was cold and long.

Spring came

Summer came.

Autumn came.

Winter came.

Spring came and took the population by surprise.

Overnight, orchards erupted into clouds of bloom and violets bubbled out of crevices and hollows. Luminous chalcedony skies were garnished with cotton-candy clouds and only rarely supplanted by misty rain showers—which never failed to fade into perfect, dazzling, rainbows.

Spring transitioned into a languid summer of sun-kissed days and soft, balmy nights.

She had filled half of her third book.

Autumn replaced summer and the Underground was transformed into a tapestry of jewels set in velvet.

On the first day of the harvest festival, the Goblin King made his long lost beloved his queen, before all his subjects. She sat blissfully beside him throughout the week, chiding him sweetly when he was overly impatient or caustic, teasing him gently when he was arrogant. And he responded—rather than with fits of pique or acts of torment—with adoring smiles and devoted regard. Or so the patrons in the tavern related over celebratory tankards of ale.

Winter made the world sparkle with pristine snowdrifts that even constant goblin traffic could not sully, and traced delicate crystal structures across leaded window panes. The tavern was as crowded as ever, but the season held a more joyful feel than it had in years past, which extended to the patrons of the tavern as much as any other resident of the Underground. She learned that a jubilant crowd is just as exhausting as a belligerent one. The Underground celebrated Christmas for the first time. The populace took to the holiday joyfully if in a somewhat ridiculous fashion.

Spring returned in enchanted beauty. She wondered if the goblins were going to loose patience with the King's new disposition, but they seemed to genuinely enjoy the charm of their transformed land, as well as the decreased frequency of traumatizing punishments—and the prettiness of the seasons was saved from monotony by occasional thunderstorms of spectacular magnitude.

By all accounts, the new Queen was everything that could be desired—she was beautiful, strong and independent, loving, loyal and kind, sweet, playful and occasionally unequivocally mischievous—in all ways the perfect compliment to the Goblin King, and an excellent ruler as well, tempering his impetuosity and arrogance with wisdom and compassion.

The monarchs were rarely seen out of the castle until midsummer, and the Queen's softly rounded belly made the reason for their reclusiveness immediately clear.

On the warm afternoon that the Queen laughingly pulled Him into the tavern for the first time since her return to the Underground, she kept her eyes on the floor as she quickly placed their drinks on the wooden table and fled, wordlessly.

Autumn returned, as it is want to do, and on the day (though she had long ago stopped keeping count) that marked her the sixth year since she had come to the Underground, the heir to the goblin throne was born. The King and Queen named him for his uncle.

Time went by.

She developed a persistent crick in her back from bending and lifting, and her hands began to ache on damp, chilly days.

She was given increasing responsibilities in the running of the tavern, which made it easier to slip away to attend to some urgent task or another on the rare occasions that the King and Queen visited the tavern.

She gained a small amount of local notoriety for her skill with a needle and was sporadically commissioned by someone requiring a garment for a special occasion. The work bolstered her resources slightly, but the work was time consuming and goblins generally rather insolvent, so not nearly so much as she might have hoped.

She heard monarchy had added two more members to the royal family. And also a puppy.

She rarely had time or inclination to write or draw anymore.

She was willed ownership of the tavern upon Millie's death and hired a young goblin girl named Kay to work scullery and barmaid.

She still adored the Goblin King from a distance.

She rarely thought about the world Above anymore. She was too busy and too tired.

She noticed that the Queen seemed more youthful and radiant each she saw her, as if she were regaining time lost in hostility, bitterness and separation.

She put Kay in charge of the castle delivery orders.

She caught her reflection in a window one day, did not recognize herself at first, then started, peering closer and wondering how she had missed the growth of the thin lines around her eyes and mouth, and the few lighter streaks in her hair.

She sewed a beautiful wedding dress for Kay and bid her farewell.

She hired a brownie to replace Kay but he left as soon as she tried to compensate him for his hard work. She berated herself for her amateur mistake. She hired a sturdy troll girl who worked hard and spoke little.

She filled her third book and purchased a fourth.

She decided to build small house in the meadow, near the apple tree.

Time went by.


End file.
